Boom Town (A Searcher Western
Page 16
She squirmed and tried to break away. He held her tighter and pressed his lips against her cheek. Quick as a minx, she dug her teeth into his lip. Blood spurted against his tongue, he shrieked in pain.
She reached to her garter and yanked out her derringer. He aimed his Colt at her. Each stared down the barrel of the other’s weapon. Blood dripped down his chin, felt as though she tore his face off.
“You bitch! I don’t know what it is that makes me love you! You’re just a tramp with cheap perfume! I hate you for what you’ve done to me!”
“What cheap perfume?” she countered. “It came from Paris, France—the best money can buy! What d’you know about perfume? You’re a stuffed shirt with a fast tongue, but I know the truth about you. You’re just another flimflam man, and when it comes to bed, you’re as bad as they get!”
Her words struck at the core of his masculinity, he lost control. He aimed his gun at her and pulled the trigger. She fired at the same instant. The room reverberated with the sound of gunfire, both bullets missed. Jamie Boggs appeared in the doorway, blood flowing down the side of his face. He lunged in front of Belle, as Madden fired again.
Jamie felt a sharp punch to his solar plexus. Belle fired over his head, her bullet cut a red swath through Madden’s hair. Jamie fell to the rug, Madden landed two seconds later.
Belle stared at them, smoking derringer in her hand. Blood foamed from Jamie’s mouth, his body shaken by tremors, blood welled out of his chest. He tried to say something, suddenly went still.
Gasping for air, she took a step back. Her servant gave his life for her. A pool of blood lay underneath Bart’s head. She believed she killed him. Stunned by the sudden deadliness of the shootout, she reached for the bottle of whiskey and guzzled a quarter of its contents.
Chapter Ten
Stone rode at the front of the posse, his sharp eyes scanning the terrain, a far cry from the Great Plains where a man could ride hundreds of miles flat in any direction.
Here were forests, mountains, passes, box canyons, sinks, and ravines to block a man’s progress. A waterfall fell down the side of a mammoth eminence, the sun casting a rainbow through the spray. Slipchuck scouted several hundred yards ahead of the main posse. They didn’t need a war party of Shoshonis to rip off their hair.
Stone turned in his saddle and looked at his men. Not trained soldiers, many drunk, riding for reward money and plunder, they’d break and run if the fight turned hot. He wondered about turning back, but Kincaid tried to murder him and who knew where their paths would cross again? Best take care of that son of a bitch now. If the men follow my orders, we can defeat them.
Stone knew cavalry tactics front to back, learned not in books but on the great battlefields of the Rebellion. Hoofbeats of the posse’s horses reminded him of army life. He loved the special cadence of massed cavalry on the move.
When the Hampton Legion rode into battle for the first time, the prettiest girls in Virginia lined the road and threw garlands at the gallant young men. On that unforgettable day, Stone wore a spiffy new uniform, brass and leather gleaming, Confederate cavalry hat jaunty on his head. The officers of the Hampton Legion came from the crème of South Carolina society, Wade Hampton one of richest planters in the South. Bands blared and children danced alongside the horses.
Sometimes a young belle would wink or smile, throw a flower or ribbon, do something special to attract his attention. Secure in the nobility of their cause, the big boys rode to war.
Stone never read official statistics, but estimated only about a third of the old Hampton Legion survived. And the girls from nice families who cheered them on? You ran into them in every saloon.
Stone sank into a dark mood. What was it all for? Here I am playing war again, when I should be on the train to San Francisco.
A jagged bolt of lightning rent the sky, followed by a peal of thunder. Stone looked at gathering gray clouds. Nothing like a gunfight in a storm. Large drops of rain splattered his old Confederate cavalry hat. Maybe this posse’s a mistake.
~*~
“A lone rider’s comin’ up the trail!”
Kincaid opened his eyes. He’d been snoozing on the couch behind his wife’s cook stove, while she baked muffins for the supper meal. He raised himself to a sitting position, pulled on his boots, reached for his rifle. She pulled hers down from the rack and jacked the lever. He put on his hat and ran to the front porch.
Rain pelted the carpet of brown and red leaves in the corner of the valley. A herd of nearly fifty mixed cattle grazed in a field nearby. Approaching hoofbeats, Kincaid wondered who it could be. Nobody rides that hard in weather like this unless it’s trouble.
A mounted figure appeared out of the mist, feet flapping up and down against the stirrups, whipping his horse’s rump with his reins. He raced across the courtyard, pulled back the reins, jumped out of the saddle before his horse came to a full stop.
Twimby limped toward Kincaid, the stump of an arrow sticking out of his leg. Kincaid took his arm and helped him into the house. Twimby dropped onto a chair. Dolly handed him a cup of hot coffee. He gulped it down, then turned toward Kincaid and said through boiled vocal chords:
“Somebody ratted on you. John Stone and a posse are on their way here right now. You’d better clear the hell out while you got the chance, and for Chrissakes take me with you. If he finds me here, he’ll string me up.”
Kincaid stared out the window at blinding sheets of rain. Startled for a moment, his crafty calculating mind resumed command of the situation. They had two choices. Run or fight. “How far back would you say they are?” he asked Twimby.
“Maybe two hours. Three at the most.”
Kincaid thought of Davis Pass, a trail wide enough for a single file of riders. Walls on both sides had ledges and ridges to conceal an ambush. That’ll be the end of the posse.
~*~
A small figure in a black cape rode a big-boned white mare across a field covered with knee-high brown grass. Rain whipped and lashed Belle’s face, she could barely see, but dug her spurs into the animal’s withers and hung on. “God, I’ll be a goddamned nun from now on if you get me to him in time!”
Her golden hair a matted yellow mop, soaked to her skin, she prodded her horse onward. Rain, tears, rouge, and mascara ran together and streaked her face like a mask of death.
The figure of the preacher lady appeared before her on the muddy trail. “Whore of Babylon, you betray Kincaid for John Stone today, but who’ll you betray John Stone for tomorrow? Your deepest love is on sale to the highest bidder!”
“It’s not true!” screamed Belle, alarming the white mare. It pounded its hooves into the ground and increased speed. The preacher lady disintegrated in the middle of the trail as the horse splattered through swaying gray curtains of rain.
~*~
Bart Madden opened his eyes with the worst headache of his life. He tried to move and the pain got worse, Jamie Boggs lay on the floor nearby, shirt soaked with blood and gore.
Madden rolled to his feet, raised himself. His head felt as if somebody cracked it with a hatchet. He staggered to the mirror. A red furrow parted his hair. He remembered Belle shooting him at point blank range. Got to get out of here.
He paused to look at the bed where he and Belle spent so many happy hours. A sickening sensation in the pit of his stomach, he staggered to the stairs. On the second floor, whores looked at him curiously. A slow day, all males in the hills searching for gold, nobody wanted to ask about shots on the third floor.
“You seen Belle?” he asked one of them.
“Left ’bout an hour ago.”
Madden came to the street. A light rain fell. Men carrying picks, shovels, and other mining implements walked toward him from the railroad station, as the whistle blew and the train headed toward San Francisco. The first contingent to respond to news of the gold strike, hordes would follow after the Lodestone Gazette hit the big cities of the East, and Madden knew where they’d put their money. In the vault
of the Lodestone Savings Bank. When full, he’d transfer it to a bank in Europe, live happily ever after.
Behind the cage, tellers counted deposits. “A better than usual day, sir,” said the head teller. “What happened to your head?”
“Tell Doc White to come to my office.”
Madden lay on the sofa beside his desk and closed his eyes. The shootout in Belle’s bedroom unhinged his mind. Confused, apprehensive, assailed by dread phantoms, he wondered how to proceed.
~*~
Kincaid peered at Davis Pass from the valley on the northern end. The rain nearly stopped, sky dark and boiling, he divided his men into two groups. One would establish positions on the east side of the bluffs. The other group, led by him, would dig in on the west side. When John Stone and his men rode through, shoot them like fish in a barrel.
“Don’t anybody fire till I give the signal!” he ordered. “We can’t let anybody get away!”
The riders separated and rode toward their respective positions. John Stone had to pass through if he wanted to reach the hideout. They hobbled their horses out of sight in a heavily wooded ravine, climbed into nooks and crannies that afforded a clear field of fire to the narrow trail below.
Kincaid removed a brass spyglass from his saddlebags and focused on rolling foothills to the south of the bluffs. Scanning back and forth, searching for movement signaling the appearance of the posse, he spotted something in the corner of his glass.
A lone rider advanced toward the pass. We’re just in time. He raised his spyglass an inch and saw the main posse. Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly.
~*~
Slipchuck reined his horse, and she performed a dance, wagging her head from side to side. Named Gertie, she was half-wild, but the old stagecoach driver of the plains preferred a mount with spirit. Perfect spot for a bushwhack, Slipchuck thought, eyeing the pass. Wouldn’t go through if you paid me.
He studied the terrain on both sides. Might travel days without finding another way north. Could get seriously lost in unfamiliar mountain country. Let Johnny worry about it.
Slipchuck trotted back to the posse. Kincaid frowned from atop his mountain aerie. The old fart suspected something. “Keep yer heads down!” he hollered to his men.
~*~
John Stone stood in his stirrups, watching Slipchuck return. He examined the landscape for signs of injuns. “Stay ready, men! Something’s up ahead.”
Slipchuck approached at a canter. The men crowded around Stone. Slipchuck pulled back his reins, came to a halt before Stone.
“There’s a pass up ahead,” Slipchuck said, “and I don’t like the looks of it. If I was going to bushwhack somebody, that’s where I’d set it up.”
“Another way to get through?”
“Didn’t see one.”
Stone found their approximate location on the map. A solid mountain range for days in each direction. “I’ll ride forward and take a look for myself.”
Slipchuck rested his arm on his saddle horn. “I wouldn’t ride out there if’n I was you, Johnny. Them hills give me a bad feeling.”
“It’s probably the bottle of whiskey you drank this morning.”
Slipchuck muttered something unintelligible beneath his breath. Stone wheeled his chestnut roan and headed toward the pass. The afternoon was silent except for the clopping of his horse’s hooves. A cool breeze passed over the valley. Stone gauged the height of the cliffs, width of the corridor. Fight a war on terrain like this; you’d have to take it mountain by mountain. Many battalions of engineers required to build bridges over rivers and deep plummeting gorges.
Stone gazed at ridges and ledges where men could conceal themselves. Send the posse on foot into the mountains, make sure they were clear, a time-consuming and disagreeable task. If outlaws were holed up, they’d have the high ground. Maybe it’s time to catch the next train to San Francisco, and to hell with Kincaid. We’ll never see each other again in our lives, so what’s the point?
~*~
Through his spyglass, Kincaid examined the man riding toward him. He focused the brass tubes for a sharper look. John Stone! He squinted to make sure. Kill the son of the bitch while you’ve got the chance.
Kincaid lay in a low-ceilinged cave, the front stock of his Sharps rifle resting on a rock. He lined up the sights on John Stone, held his breath. The trigger one sixteenth of an inch from tripping the hammer, John Stone careened out of Kincaid’s line of fire. Kincaid raised his head to see what happened.
A lone rider debouched from a stand of trees to the east of Stone. Kincaid tried to fix Stone in his sights again, but Stone’s horse galloped toward the new arrival. Kincaid picked up his spyglass and caught the rider in his sights.
Belle McGuinness! Stone’s horse slowed as she drew closer. Kincaid pulled the rifle butt into his shoulder and hunkered down for another long shot at the man who took his job.
~*~
Hysterical, her face smeared with cosmetics, Belle approached on her white mare. “Go back! He’s a-gonna bushwhack you!”
“What’re you doing here?” he asked, astonished to see her.
She came abreast of him, her clothes damp from rain, her perfect coiffure awry. “Get away!” She raised her reins to whap Stone’s horse on the rump.
He grabbed her hand. “What’s wrong with you!”
“Kincaid—he ...”
She jolted in her saddle, eyes round with surprise. A red spot appeared near her collarbone, the sound of a shot echoed across the valley. A second bullet whizzed past Stone’s left ear. Belle leaned toward him, he lifted her out of the saddle and kicked his spurs.
The chestnut roan bounded away. Bullets flew around Stone, but he was a moving target. The posse fired over his head at the outlaws in the mountains. In a burst of speed, the chestnut roan placed Stone and Belle on the main trail.
Belle moaned softly in Stone’s ear, her blood stained the front of his shirt. If she hadn’t come along, I’d be dead right now., A bullet whistled past Stone’s hip as the chestnut roan galloped toward the posse.
~*~
Kincaid spat in disgust. Posse knows where we are. He crawled out of the cave and cupped his hands around his mouth. “Back to the hideout!”
The outlaws emerged from their holes in the ground. They descended the hill, heading toward the ravine where their horses were hobbled. Kincaid was furious with himself. How could I miss?
He cursed under his breath. I don’t think things out. What a dumb move. Why didn’t I wait?
~*~
The men from the posse lay on their stomachs and fired rifles at the mountains. Stone rode closer, held Belle tightly, her body lifeless and arms hanging loosely down her sides. He reined in the chestnut roan, Slipchuck and McGeachy took Belle and gently laid her on the ground.
Stone dismounted and knelt beside her. Slipchuck poured water onto his bandanna and washed the cosmetics from her face. Her breath came in short gasps, an inferno raged in her lungs, she grimaced at the searing, grueling pain. McGeachy placed his saddlebags underneath her head.
She opened her eyes. “Are you all right … Johnny?”
“Sure I am, thanks to you, Belle.”
“We’ll go to … Texas together … won’t we?”
“I’ll work the cattle, you take care of the business.”
“You won’t …leave me, will …you?”
“Not me, Belle.”
Dying, blood leaking out the corner of her mouth, she touched her hand to his cheek. “You was ... my love ...”
Her voice trailed off. She stared lifelessly at the sky. He looked at the mountains on both sides of the pass. They’ll pay for this. His mind switched into military mode. What would I do if I were Kincaid? I’d pull out and go into hiding until everything settled down. Maybe the posse can ride through the pass now and catch the outlaws on the other end.
“Slipchuck, you stay with Belle! The rest of you saddle up and come with me! We’ll get behind them and cut them off!”
The posse followed him, slapping leather. The beautiful courtesan lay at Slipchuck’s feet, her face white marble, shirt a puddle of blood, eyes glazing over, growing cold. Yesterday she’d been the toast of the town, tomorrow she’d rot in her grave. Slipchuck recalled the bold boss of the Grand Palace swaggering through the corridors, cheroot in her dainty fingers. Now she was dead meat.
At least she makes a purty corpse. When I die, I’ll be so ugly they’ll bury me quick as they can. He reached forward and closed her eyes. Now she appeared asleep, except for blood coagulating on her shirt. He unlashed his bedroll, covered her with his blanket. Then he clasped his hands together and bowed his head. “Lord, please take good care of Belle McGuinness. She was a good gal, an’ I know you’ll like her if you just give her a chance.”
~*~
Kincaid half ran and half slid down the mountain, slippery and treacherous with newly fallen red and gold leaves. He cursed himself for missing John Stone, even for firing at him in the first place. Should’ve stuck to the original plan.
His heart pounded wildly in his chest. He ordinarily didn’t do much exercise, had to pause beside a pine tree to catch his breath. His men crashed through the tangled underbrush nearby. Kincaid felt a terrible premonition.
He pushed himself forward and moved unsteadily down the hill, knees surprisingly weak, afraid he’d fall. He wanted to throw his rifle away, but might need it later.
Why didn’t I wait? We had them where we wanted them, Hadn’t been for Belle, would’ve killed the son of a bitch.
~*~
John Stone led the posse across the winding trail, heading for the pass in the mountains, ground trembling beneath their hooves, like cavalry at war. Stone charged the entrance, gun in his right hand, reins in his left, his horse galloped through the narrow twisting corridor. Horses behind him kicked up dust and stones as they galloped around curves. Rock walls rose straight up beside them, echoing the roar. Stone saw open sky straight ahead. The chestnut roan ran out the far side of the passageway, Stone glanced to his right and left, no sign of outlaws. He held his hand in the air. “Take cover!”